


War

by johnlockaf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Historical, M/M, Sad Ending, Unresolved, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 01:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6065368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlockaf/pseuds/johnlockaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amongst other things, John promised to write as well. Only one letter came through. It arrived two years, three months, and eleven days following his leave. Sherlock counted the days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	War

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my friend's birthday. I ended up procrastinating for a really long time, though.... But, I hope you enjoyed the angst! Happy Belated Birthday!! I love you x

War. The inescapable result of humankind’s dastardly afflictions. The turbulent devil that prowls through the shadows of a nation’s judgement. It was both arduous and desolate, constructing a rather melancholy ambience amongst the people of Britain. Whilst the war proceeded, it had brought a much deeper sense of mental strain, accompanied by the many tangible burdens on account of the bombings. From buildings being plunged into the ground to all of one’s personal possessions lost to the clutches of the rubble. What was once theirs, was no more.

The war amongst the nations was not Sherlock Holmes’ greatest affair, it was the impact which affected him the most. He had received note that able-bodied men were required to serve in the war. The day following, he learned that his flatmate, John Watson would be one of the many conscripts entering the war effort. The concern on whether he could continue to pay the rent was the least of his worries.

Sherlock had lived with John for several years prior to the war. Many had assumed the two to be engaging in an illegal homosexual relationship, resulting in constant visits from the local authorities and looks from prying eyes. The fact that the public’s assumptions were accurate kept them on their toes.. They enjoyed the thrill in being together even though they knew it held consequences. Almost twelve years they have lived together and seven years they have been romantically involved. This would be the first time they would part since they met. And it reigned disaster on each of them.

 

***

 

“John, you can’t go,” Sherlock begged. He would not look John in the eyes.

“I have to. It’s my duty. If I were to evade this opportunity to support my country, it would name me disloyal. Do you want that?” John replied. He was growing angry and Sherlock felt it.

Sherlock sighed, “What am I to do here? Endure the war alone? Linger with impatience, waiting for your return?”

“Yes, and that’s what you’ll do. The war will be over before you know it,” John attempted at support.

“I-I can’t last here alone, John. You know that. They’ll come back and…and… accuse me again,” Sherlock implored. “I’ll have no one to defend me. I can’t do it myself, I’m not strong enough. They’ll take me away.”

“You’ll make it through. I believe in you. You’re strong.,” John hummed.

Solemnly, Sherlock finally turned to face John, “Come home, please.”

“I will,” he near whispered.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

 

***

 

John would leave early in the morning, two days following. Naturally, Sherlock made the trip to the train station with him. Each step he took, he loathed. Each muscle he moved in proceeding towards John’s leave felt as if a thousand wasps stung at it. He was finding it hard to smile at this point. John noticed, but hadn’t said a word.

 

 _Was this hurting him as much as it was hurting me?,_ Sherlock would wonder.

 

“Now, Sherlock, I want you to remember… that I love you… and that I’ll return. I promise,” John’s words echoed through Sherlock’s mind.

They embraced each other with one last hug. John was reluctant to let go, but the screaming of the train’s whistle brought him back to reality. He slowly eased himself out of Sherlock’s touch and out of the life he may have just left behind forever. Sherlock’s soul felt as if it withdrew from his body as John’s pulled away. The way his arm softly brushed away, near reduced him to tears.

Watching him board the train amongst the pools of parting families, wives, and friends was harder than anything Sherlock had imagined. The prying thoughts of him not returning struck him like lightning, preventing him from enjoying his last moments with John.

The train began to push forward, and then time became sedated. Everything began to take pause. Sherlock’s eyes couldn’t grasp the image of the train like they did moments ago. Sounds began to blur as well as the sights. His breathing denied the state of his senses as it quickly sped up. The only clear concern that stood orderly in his mind was John.

 

_Will he be okay? Will he make it there?_

 

_Will he make it back?_

 

***

 

 

_London, 1941_

 

Amongst other things, John promised to write as well. Only one letter came through. It arrived two years, three months, and eleven days following his leave. Sherlock counted the days.

The feeling that drifted upon Sherlock’s heart was one that he missed with every morsel of his being— happiness. The letter that he held so tightly in his hands was the root of it. It read:

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

 

_I’ve made some friends in the infantry division. They’re likable people, though they’re not you. I miss you greatly. The training is vigorous and the shouting is plentiful. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a good night’s rest. The cuisine is awful, though I’m lucky to be eating at all._

_I’ve traveled all over Europe and seen breathtaking places. Many of which I know you’d love. They kept their beauty despite the fatigue of the war. Just like you. It reminded me of you. Everything has been lately. How are things holding up with you? Are you well? Stay strong for me, Sherlock. Wait for me to come home. Because I will. And when I do, I want you to be there waiting for me._

 

_Sincerely, John Watson_

 

***

 

_Singapore, South-East Asian Theatre, 1942_

 

The morning broke and it was reported that the Japanese had crushed through the Allies’ last and remaining line of defense. Food and ammunition were scarce. The inefficiency of the forces who avoided to build an air raid shelter added to the disarray. Two options were presented: either launch an immediate counter-attack to regain supplies and food or surrender. The obvious and only choice was to surrender, and that’s what they opted for.

After releasing a motor car bearing the Union Jack and a white flag, the Japanese quickly laid out their terms considering the surrender. The British lost Singapore as well as a great number of their soldiers to the hands of their enemy. John Watson was one of them. From that day forward, he had spent his days in a cell amongst other people in his division. The remaining troops eventually made their way back. Unable to do anything about the POWs they left behind. Word travelled quickly and reached the headquarters soon before the boats did. It was only a matter of time before messages were sent out and loved ones received them. Despite the disastrous events that had occurred and the distasteful fate he had received, John continued pushing on. He encouraged others and by doing so, built up their courage. He _was_ going home. There was no other option.

 

***

 

_London, 1942_

 

It was high noon when Sherlock received the news. He had no impression as to what the envelope held. In the midst of his high hopes, he believed it was a note of John’s return. Opening it, ever so slowly, he slid the coarse piece of paper from the envelope. Firstly, his eyes quickly skid over the words, attempting to get the gist. _No, that couldn’t be true._ Secondly, he focused his attention again, starting at the top and making his way down.

John hadn’t returned with the troops. John hadn’t made it out. John wasn’t coming home. Sherlock couldn’t catch his breath. He hadn’t even noticed how tight his grip on the paper was or the incessant trembling his hands emitted.

He sat alone on the foot of his bed. _Their bed_. His eyes stared blankly onto the floor. The sound of the radio blaring, but inaudible to him. Only one thing came to his focus. And that was John Watson.

 

***

 

The night was mute, the streets bare. The moon’s light seemed more dim than usual. The fear-stricken city of London was hidden beneath the shelters, safe from harm. Though, not all had made the effort.

Sherlock, reluctant to move, had made his stay upon the frontmost chair of his dining table. Everything from that moment on moved so slowly. He couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or his sleeplessness, but that didn’t stop him from downing another bottle. The clamor that so effortlessly flew from the radio barely wrapped around Sherlock’s head.

 

_Germans. Luftwaffe. Take shelter._

 

The words that would ordinarily bring disaster and panic to him, he had dismissed as if they were nothing. The concern for his life that he previously held had slipped away. Hope had lost all possibility of remaining.

Steadily, he set the bottle down and his eyes came to a close. Everything almost seemed calm, content. He allowed himself the leisure of a smile. He breathed it in— happiness. The stolen pleasure that makes life tolerable. The golden prize in which life only gives to those deserving. Life’s variable. God’s game. In Sherlock’s circumstances, John Watson.

Though this moment of bliss was fearfully short-lived, Sherlock had expected nonetheless. He had one last thought before it all ended,  _Forgive me_. Those two words resonated against the walls of his mind as he prepared himself for what was to come. _Forgive me_ , his mind screamed as the first shell hit, landing right in front of him. _Forgive me_ , his mind cried, awaiting his fate. _Forgive me_ , he whispered ever so quietly, before everything faded.

 

***

 

War. The inescapable result of humankind’s dastardly afflictions. The turbulent devil that prowls through the shadows of a nation’s judgement. The misfortune that had finally come to an end. The war was over. The Axis Powers had surrendered, leaving every country they previously occupied. Soldiers began to return home. Families were reunited. Millions celebrated. Among the triumph, there was still remaining sorrow. The body count was far too large. The loss near overruled the true victory.

 

***

 

_London, 1945_

 

Mycroft Holmes, brother of the late Sherlock Holmes, sat silently at his desk, occasionally greeting a fellow co-worker concerning the Allies’ favorable result. Golden, was the air that surrounded the room. Pure happiness coursed throughout the halls and the minds of the people. Mycroft had received the vibe thoroughly, but he was negligent to completely engage. It was in that somber moment he had heard the ring of his telephone sound. Naturally, he answered.

 

“Yes?” he coldly greeted.

The voice on the other end seemed muffled, “Is this Mycroft Holmes?”

“Yes,” he repeated in a vexed tone.

The speaker was obviously somewhere crowded, “Uh, yeah, this is John. John Watson. I, um… I couldn’t get ahold of your brother for some odd reason. The Japanese had released my division after their surrender… Tell him I’m coming home, will you? Tell him I’m coming home.”


End file.
